Chapter Three
As the plane began its descent into JFK Airport, Nick felt his stomach clench. He had no idea what lay ahead in the next few weeks. Agreeing to be someone’s bone marrow donor was a hell of a thing on its own—much less taking a leave from work, staying in a different state, being poked and prodded and God only knew what else by doctors, and dealing with a group of strangers who were desperate for him to be the miracle they’d been praying for.
Add to all that the bizarre fact that he was related to these people and they had no idea. How the hell was he supposed to bring that up?
When he’d peeled away from his parents’ house, he’d gone right to his favorite bar and called his best friend. He and Darin Peterson had met on their first day at the police training academy and been tight from that day one; there was no one else he trusted more. Darin had talked him down as they shared some beers, then driven him home when he’d exceeded his limit. The next morning, he’d gotten on the Internet and dug up everything he could on the Harrison family. His research and investigative skills had never felt so crucial.
He needn’t have worried. There was a lot of information readily available. This wasn’t just any family—they were like the goddamn Rockefellers, for Christ sake. There was extensive material on all of them; he spent hours making notes and soaking it all up. When he pulled up younger photos of Charles Harrison II, his bio dad, his breath got stuck in his lungs. His mom had been right; the resemblance was strong and undeniable.
His mom. Thinking of her now made his stomach do that miserable little flip again. God, he was so pissed at her. Her and his dad both. They’d both tried to call several times, sent texts and emails, but he hadn’t answered. All he’d done was shoot them one quick text right before he boarded the plane in Miami, letting them know he was leaving and would be in touch when he was ready.
The betrayal and rage Nick felt was so deep, so overwhelming, he hadn’t even processed it yet. So he did what he had to, same as any time he went out on the street at work: he shoved all those feelings into a box in his head and sealed it up. He had too much to deal with as it was; his parents would have to wait. He wasn’t ready to talk to them right now. He’d inherited his mother’s temper, that was for sure. He needed time and space to cool off.
The plane touched down gently onto the tarmac, and he glanced out the window. For mid-April, it didn’t look like springtime yet; everything looked gray and brown. Dead grass, naked trees, and concrete, all made even more gloomy by the overcast sky. Florida was gorgeous, always with everything in bloom, green grass and colorful flowers everywhere.... He sighed. Maybe New York City was something to write home about, but so far, on first glance, he was unimpressed.
He moved slowly as he disembarked, not in a hurry to face these Harrison people. He knew he’d have to tell them sooner or later who he was . . . but since he was still having a hard time wrapping his head around it, he was at a loss. He felt off his game. He was always so sure, and that confidence worked well for him as a cop. But this . . . he’d never dealt with anything like this. His whole sense of identity had been thrown for a loop. He had no idea what to do, how to handle it. So he’d just stay quiet, observe them all—watch, listen, and learn as if he were working undercover. At least that he knew how to do.
Nick was one of the last people off the plane. His long legs carried him through the terminal, but he didn’t even feel aware of his surroundings. He shifted his duffel bag over his shoulder and kept following the signs toward the baggage claim.
Nick waited by the baggage carousel for almost fifteen minutes before his bag finally appeared. He pulled it off, shifted his duffel on his shoulder, and wheeled his suitcase along as he headed toward the exits. Charles Harrison had told him that someone would be waiting there for him, a driver to take him to his hotel. Charles had made all the arrangements, covering every base. If Nick allowed himself, he could almost think of it as a vacation . . . if vacations involved hospitals, needles, and sick kids.
Sure enough, a stocky, tough-looking man in a dark suit stood front and center, holding a sign that simply read MARTELL. Nick went to him and said, “I think you’re looking for me. I’m Nick Martell.”
“Okay, great,” the man said. His eyes were almost as silver as his crew-cut hair. “You have ID to show me, though?”
Nick wanted to scoff at the suggestion, then remembered who he was dealing with. The super-wealthy and powerful Harrison family clearly didn’t mess around. This guy was like a tank; Nick bet he was former Army or even Marines, just based on his vibe. He pulled out his wallet and flipped it open, showing not just his driver’s license, but his badge. He watched as the guy’s steely gaze glanced over both.
“Nice to meet you, Officer Martell,” the man said. He extended his free hand for a handshake. “Name’s Bruck. I’m Charles Harrison’s driver. He’s waiting outside in the car. He figured you two could talk as I drive you to your hotel, since it’s a good forty-minute ride from here.”
“I see.” Nick knew Charles must be anxious to meet him, considering he was there to try to help save his son’s life, so he didn’t read too much into it. “Call me Nick, though, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And for God’s sake, don’t ‘sir’ me.” Nick slanted him a sideways look. “First of all, I’m probably half your age. Second . . . I’m like you, not them.”
Bruck only nodded. “I’ll take your luggage.” He reached down to grasp the handle of Nick’s suitcase from his hand.
But Nick held tight and said, “No, dude, I can do that.”
Bruck raised one thick brow and said, “Make you a deal. I won’t call you ‘sir,’ and you won’t call me ‘dude.’ Okay?”
Nick laughed, relaxing a bit for the first time all day. “Sure.”
Bruck started walking and Nick followed, pulling the wheeled case along.
“You were in the service, weren’t you?” Nick guessed, unable to help himself.
“Army,” Bruck said. “Fifteen years.”
“I can tell.”
Bruck only nodded, but Nick caught the spark of esteem in his eyes.
“So now you’re a driver. You his muscle too?” Nick asked casually.
“Sometimes.” Bruck didn’t give him more than that, but Nick didn’t need any more. This guy was probably armed, and his broad build hinted at sure physical strength. “How long you been a cop?” Bruck asked. His New York accent wasn’t heavy like the stereotypes Nick had heard in movies, but it was definitely noticeable.
“Five years. Just got promoted, actually,” Nick found himself saying. “I’m moving up to investigator.”
“Good for you,” Bruck said, and Nick thought he heard real respect in his voice.
They went through sliding glass doors and made their way through the people on the sidewalk. Every building was gray; the sky was gray. . . . Nick didn’t like it. He already missed the sunshine and the bright colors. Ain’t in Kansas anymore, Toto, he thought, grinning ruefully.
Then he noticed the black Escalade parked a few feet away. He watched Bruck go to it, and frowned. Private cars weren’t usually allowed to stay parked curbside at airports for more than a minute. He knew NYC security and law enforcement were pretty tight by reputation. So how the hell had Bruck done that? Big money, that’s how, a voice whispered in his head. You’re entering a different world now, remember? Buckle up.
Bruck opened the trunk and took the suitcase handle from Nick’s hand. As he hauled it into the back, Nick pulled his duffel bag over his shoulder and put it inside. Then he took a deep breath, went to the passenger door, and opened it.
“Hello.” The dark-haired man sitting in the backseat wore an expensive suit, was a little older than him, and reeked of power and prestige. But he leaned in, offering a friendly smile and a firm handshake. “So good to meet you, Mr. Martell. I trust your flight was fine?”
Nick only nodded. He peered harder into the shadows of the backseat.
“Glad to hear it,” the man said, still smiling amiably. He leaned back just a bit, a shaft of sunlight lighting his face. “Well, I can’t thank you enough for coming. I’m Charles Harrison. Come on, hop in.”
Nick’s throat thickened as he stared. He knew that Charles Harrison III was seventeen years his senior; his thick dark waves were peppered with silver and his eyes were bright blue, with deep laugh lines crinkling the corners. They had the same nose, the same square jaw. . . . Seeing this man in person had him suddenly choked up. He hadn’t expected to react so viscerally. It was the damnedest thing.
Nick cleared his throat as he climbed into the backseat, closed the door, turned to his big brother, and finally managed to say, “Good to meet you too. Call me Nick.”